


She is Calm

by Kauri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mental Instability, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex, cork-popping tamassran, sexual healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:36:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kauri/pseuds/Kauri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there was Bull there was Hissrad, and a visit to one of those cork-popping Tamassran's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She is Calm

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this anon tumblr prompt:  
> Oh my gosh, if you wrote an Iron Bull fic, even a short one, I'd probably die. Your writing is AMAZING.

“You are the one they call Hissrad.”

It’s a simple observation. It shouldn’t throw him, but it does. He’s never seen this Tamassran. He’s been out in the field before -- was  _ bred _ for it, of course. But never so long, before. Never for so long.

_ Seheron _ .

And now, even something as simple as this, throws him. It’s hard to shake the sense of unease that ripples up his spine.

That he should be  _ known, _ and not know.

He covers his discomfort by turning his back on her, unfastening his harness with exaggerated care, nine fingers working at the fastenings on his wide leather belt. “I am. One of many, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

Turning his back on her was a mistake. He feels the naked spot between his shoulderblades keenly, can almost  _ feel _ the prick of a blade against his spine, the slide and shock of it, and hunches to kill the sensation.

“You’re new.” He says instead.

“Hardly.” She chuckles. “I’ve been around a while.”

She steps into him, presses herself against his back. She’s naked now, he can tell. The warmth of her body and the gentle squash of her breasts ease him, the sensation so far from that of a killing blow that he starts to relax, inch by inch. She hold him for a moment, arms loosely around him, before reaching for the laces of his breeches. She’s efficient -- but then, they  _ are _ standard issue -- and has him bared in only a few heartbeats.

“They call me in for the ones just returning from the roughest engagements.” She explains, hands light on his hips. “To make sure they didn’t come back missing any pieces.”

He turns to face her. “And am I missing pieces?”

From another’s lips the tone might be gentle, teasing even. From Hissrad it sounds like the challenge it is.

Her brows furrow.

Even so, it’s enough of a set up that she could easily make a dick joke. The out is obvious. He would laugh. She would laugh. It might even be funny. Instead she looks him up and down, slowly, and says instead. “Are you?”

_ Seheron _ .

He has to lock his knees to keep from shivering. “None that matter.”

She reaches out to touch his chest, fingers gliding up and down. She doesn’t trace his scars, the way a lover might. And yet he feels her touch most keenly across them, if only because, on his scars, the lines of emptiness that map his body; the warmth of her fingers is little more than memory.

She reaches lower, caresses the girth of his cock as it rises, half hard, foreskin pulling back, just a little to reveal the thick, blunted tip of him. She cups his balls, heavy and tender-skinned, and he makes a growly sound of appreciation, spreads his legs, just a bit, to give her better access. Her thumbs drag down, gently, but firmly, pulling on his scrotum, then cupping. Fingers trail the seam of his perineum and up the underside of his cock, teasing a groan out of him. She winds her grip around the base of him -- dick  _ and _ balls -- and starts to work him with her other hand. There’s something slippery on her fingers, her thumb rubs small circles around the head of his cock.

She’s beautiful, he notices, and broad, and muscled, like most of their people. Her skin is dark, darker than his own, and faintly, blue. Her hair hangs loose and long over down her shoulders, parting for heavy breasts with blushing tips.

He runs his fingernail idly along the edge of one of her nipples, and it hardens to a point. Her breath catches as his fingers press down on it, pinching, and pulling. Working one, and then the other. Her head tilts back, just a little, and he sees, for the first time, the scar just below her jawline.

_ Seheron _ .

He makes a strangled noise, and she squeezes his balls, gently.

“How long?” She wonders.

“One hundred and eighty-nine days.”

Her fingers falter, but only for a moment. “Too long.” She says.

“I know.”

She strokes him, and he thrusts forward into her palm just a little.

It  _ has _ been too long. He is  _ Salit Ben-Hassrath. _ A spy of the highest rank. Now, he can’t even see past a pair of nice tits.

And he didn’t bother to look.

To  _ look. _

The calluses on her hands; at the base of all her fingers, and between her thumb, calluses that feel  _ so good  _ against him. She didn’t get those stroking cock all day. The off-center way she kneels, keeping more of her weight on her left side. His knees are just the same, tender when he kneels, battered from sliding -- on rain or blood -- over rough terrain.

And that scar at her throat. Neat, and thin, and nearly from ear to ear. One end slants distinctively. Abruptly. It looks very much like a scar left from an Assassin’s blade.

She kneels before him. From this angle he can see her, shoulders, spine, curving ribs, the network of scars that line her back, and it’s  _ all _ the confirmation he needs.

She was not bred to serve as she does. She was a warrior, like him. A creature of blood and blade.

Of death.

Ruin.

_ Seheron _ .

She takes his cock in her mouth and teases it with her tongue, and for a while his mind blanks completely. He’s slow to harden, always, but when he does, he’s  _ so sensitive. _ And the  _ pressure _ as she sucks him steals his breath. He can feel little tendrils of heat unfurling, coiling down his belly, around this thighs. His world becomes his dick in her mouth.

He spills a little pre-come. He can feel it leaking from his tip. She swirls her tongue, catching it, scooping the taste to the back of her mouth.

Her horns curl against his thighs and he grasps one, urging her deeper, and deeper. He bottoms out. Hits the back of her throat. But she doesn’t gag, just relaxes and pushes him down, swallowing.  He swears breathlessly in three different languages when she hilts him, and  _ holds,  _ eyes locking with his. He’s large, even for a Qunari, it’s rare to find a lover who can take him all, even a Tamassran.

He could spend himself so easily, nearly does. But after a long, long moment she pulls back, kisses her way up his body until they are face to face again.

He can taste his seed on her lips. “What do they call you?”

“Taashath.”

_ Calm. _ It fits. There is a steadiness in her, a surety.

He doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t know if he should. He already knows the answer. Instead he leans over, traces the line of the scar at her throat with his tongue. “Was it always so?”

She doesn’t shy away from the touch, tilts her head back, giving him access to her throat, and says: “I was built for a different life.”

“And  _ this? _ This is what you want now?” He doesn’t mean too, but he grabs himself, a lewd gesture, pushes his erection against, but not into, the juncture between her hips and thighs. He can feel the dampness caught in the softly curling hair of her thatch.

She meets his gaze head-on. There’s nothing challenging, or offended. She grabs his horns, climbs up him, spreading her legs, and  _ sinks _ down, impaling herself, slowly, slowly onto his cock. “I do not think  _ I _ am the one who is troubled by their duty.”

He groans as he fills her. So loud it’s almost a roar.

She’s stretched  _ tight _ around his cock. And though she takes him all, he can tell it’s a strain. He wants to fuck her, hard, and deep and  _ now.  _ But he forces himself to wait until she’s fully seated, and adjusted to his girth before backing her against a wall. He doesn’t thrust, even then. Lets her shift her weight, so the angle takes some strain off her arms.

He moves then, slow and heavy, hands clutching her hips, trying to pull her deeper. She arches, braces against the wall as his hips increase in ferocity. His cock hits something deep inside her, she cries out, tries to wiggle away, but he holds her fast and grinds into her.

“Tell. Me. Why.” He grunts between thrusts.

Sweat is beginning to dot her brow, but she ignores it, opens her legs a little wider, angles herself to take all he can give her. And cups his face in her hands. “Is there a place that haunts your waking dreams?”

_ Seheron _ .

He can feel his neck bend, forehead touching hers, their horns fitting together, nearly tangling. He can almost smell the stench of the city, the sizzle of magic, the stink of the fog rolling in off the water. He thrusts, harder and faster, trying to moan so he doesn’t scream.

“Is there a soldier whose death you’ll never forget and whose name you can’t remember?”

_ Seheron _ .

His hips snap up, meeting hers, burying his length within her cleft. Her words score him, spur him. He slams her against the wall. He must be hurting her her, must be, but she doesn’t complain, or pull away. Keeps her hands on his cheeks, strong and sturdy, and mummers, as he falls apart.

“Is there a night you can remember falling asleep  _ not _ smelling of the blood of those you never wanted to kill?”

_ Seheron _ .

He fucks her  _ hard. _ As hard as he can. Trying to lay the pleasure he feels over the bleeding wounds on his heart.  He’s not sure if the wet heat he feels between her legs is her slick, or if he’s damaged her with his ferocity, somehow. He’s not sure he could stop if he had. Blood wouldn’t… couldn’t bother him anymore… The red ocean’s he’s swum… The pain… her pain…

“Is there a time when you raise your sword, and you  _ don’t pray _ that the enemy you face is quicker, stronger than you? That this time, this time, the strike will be too deep, and they’ll leave you, red and smiling on the corpses of your comrades?”

_ Seheron _ .

_ Seheron _ . _ Seheron. Seheron… _

His hips still completely. He’s laid bare at the edge of the cliff. There’s nothing around, nothing to hide him, to shield him. Can’t fight. Can’t flee. He feels the pieces of himself fall away. Salit. Hissrad. Qunari. Him. He’s not sure where the ruin stops, and what then is left to him. Of him.

“Because if there isn’t… you could never understand why.”

He comes.

He  _ comes _ .

It is  _ furious _ , pours out of him as he  _ roars _ , knees buckling, and he nearly drops them both. The sensation hits him half-a heartbeat later, a pleasure so high and bright he sees sparks behind his eyelids, and loses himself, utterly.

Nothing. Nothing.

There is nothing left.

They are tangled on the bed -- how did they get to the bed? -- heavy limbed and sweaty. And he  _ aches _ as if he’s done battle, scored down to his bones. But she’s there beside him, calm and still and entirely without judgement. She just  _ is. _

_ Taashath. _

He whispers her name. Can she hear the longing in his voice? “The re-educators… what did they do to you?”

“Nothing.” She strokes one of his horns, lazily. She’s not even out of breath. “I wanted to heal… not to hurt. They showed me how.  _ This. _ Touching… tasting… I am happier now.”

“And do you… remember everything… all the reasons you left?”

“Forgetting is not the same helping.” Her lips curve, but it isn’t a smile. “I am proud of my service to the Qun. Proud of what I was, what I am now.”

He doesn’t stay long. There are no kisses, no good-byes. He gives her only his seed, they need nothing more from one another. And yet, when he reaches the door, she calls out to him.

“Tetha a, Hissrad…”

He turns back, he can only see the silhouette of her against the window, and not her expression. She might not even be facing him.

“We are all tools, in service to the Qun. There is no dishonor in a blade that needs only to be sharpened to become useful once again.”

He has no idea which one of them she’s referring to.

 

\---

 

Seheron - An island off the Tevinter coast, Bull was stationed there for 10 years...far longer that the standard "maximum" service term of 2.

Salit - Meaning unknown, a prominent rank within the Ben-Hassrath

Taashath - Calm

Teth a - A call for attention, or warning

**Author's Note:**

> I had a hard time with this one. Generic prompts are always harder for me (in a way) because I tend to over think things. And Bull. Damn, I love Bull. But I'm only at the beginning of my Bullmance play-thru, so I felt entirely under qualified to write about it.
> 
> But I always thought Bull's description about the cork-popping Tamassran's was intriguing. And if you guys know the name for them PLEASE tell me.
> 
> Also...
> 
> Me: I want to do a character study on Bull having a bit of a mental meltdown.  
> Me: I should also put some smut in it.


End file.
